


Amber Blood and Blue Bells

by Random_ag



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Missing Moments, i really wanted skull kid to be in this game, so i snucked him in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 17:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14699337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: He stares at it. He stares at the woman who looks at him in the eyes.The woman he's holding in his small, small hands. She's blue.





	Amber Blood and Blue Bells

It sounds easy.

Take the sword, run home, put it in the ground. Done. Easy.

 

_**-What are you waiting for?-** _

 

But he shudders so hard. He shudders and shivers and the blade hits gracefully his fingers with the sound of little bells. 

He stares at it. He stares at the woman who looks at him in the eyes.

The woman he is holding in his small, small hands. She’s blue.

 

##  **_-Go! Now!-_ **

 

She’s so blank and blue and cold. It feels like she’s made of metal and she’s got no arms.

She stares at him, and she looks like her head is empty, without thoughts. Her body’s all rotten and broken and dirty like the sword he has to take away. And the more he looks at her, the more he doesn’t know if he’s holding both or none.

 

##  ~~_**-Skull Kid!-** _ ~~

 

His head tilts up, his knees crumble, his legs move messily and his grip tightens. Amber bleeds on the sacred blade.

He turns around and runs away, uncoordinate, stumbling, fast, faster, the fastest he can be, maybe more.

He runs, his sleeves bloating as wind gets caught in them, never looking down or back.

His mind wildly runs with him.

In a second, he thinks of too much.

That’s where he notices something.

Something like not knowing where to actually go.

Home,  _ **she**_  said. Take it home.

But home stopped being home long ago.

When the children of the trees turned into wood themselves and painted faces on the leaves they carry as masks.

They didn’t like him, not at all. He was scary, they said. He had a skull for face and was made of madness.

The Tree,  _he_  was nice. _He_ allowed him to play around him.  _He_  let him sleep on his roots.  _He_  didn’t hold anything against him.

The children did.

They threw him out, scared of a threat that could have been once, but never was to begin with. Maybe jealous, or simply angry.

He wasn’t allowed to come back.

And home was never home again.

Home now are the other forests, and the Maze filled with bad memories and fog.

But he can’t bring the sword in the woods. There’s too much evil, too little safety. And how could the boy find it, in such a vaste world.

He could bring it to the Maze. Yes, it’s a nice idea.

No no no, it’s terrible, terrible. How could the boy manage to get to it? The Maze would spit him out everytime.

The only thing he can do is bring it back to the Forest.

He can hear small voices yelling at him, afraid, and there’s something, a bad something that makes a knot inside his neck.

He runs and runs, and tries to stop thinking. He fails.

He feels his blood thickening inside his veins.

It crystalizes, blocking his throat.

That bad something wasn’t a figment of his imagination. 

He can’t breath. He can’t.

He can’t stop.

He can’t reach for his small, thin knife.

He has to do what  ** _she_**  said.

He has to take the sword there.

He needs to.

He needs to or everyone will be doomed.

He needs to keep running.

He needs.

He.

He. Needs. To.

He - ~~ _a_ ugh-~~

needs  ~~- _aaa_ ugh-~~

## to  ~~- _aaaaaa_ ugh-~~

##  **breathe**   ~~- _aaaaaaaaa_ ugh-~~

 

 

Something sharp.

 

 

It slices his throat, silently.

 

An orange waterfall springs, falling gooey and disturbing from a split open neck.

 

He takes a deep, deep breath. Pieces of amber get pushed out of his wooden body by the air he ingests. They fall on the grass, still dripping a liquid of their same color.

 

The woman’s leg is slightly covered in it. So is one side of the sword. Her expressionless eyes are tied to his.

 

Not a word.

He thanks her by keeping on running.

His head bounces as he goes, but he barely notices.

He can’t feel, or hear, smell, see anything.

Monsters and landscapes flash around him, mixtures of colours violently thrown around him like brush strokes a painter can’t control anymore. Everytime he takes a step images change and hit him furiously, with horrifying screams.

So he never stops.

It’s only when he feels something soft, and chilly, and wet, and so concretely ethereal, when he feels the fog greeting him with a kiss that covers almost lovingly, sweetly his whole face, only then he slows down to the point of being perfectly still.

His body falls on itself, covered in deep cuts. Small orange gems fall from them.

The woman helped him. The sword helped him. Slicing him open to let the blood out, so that he could have air. So that he may do what he was asked to. She stares at him and reaches one of her sleeves to touch his face as he can’t stop wheezing, gasping to catch a breath in his almost empty body.

It feels nice, like actual clothing is caressing his face.

The Maze cools him down enough to make him go on. He’s close, after all.

 

Go to the Tree, put the sword in the ground. Done. Easy.

 

Slowly, he stands up. Stumbling like a drunken sailor, he makes his way to the Forest, holding the sword tight in his bloody hands.

The children of the trees shake angry when he shows up. He walks past them, not seeing anything. Some of them follow him with their eyes, confused, and some touch with cautious curiousity the amber water dripping from him.

His head lifts up, catching a glimpse of the Tree. He falls to the ground, suddenly dizzy, and can’t get up no matter how hard he tries.

The woman points softly at the path. They’re close, they’re so very close, just a couple more steps. But he doesn’t respond.

He couldn’t do it, he thinks, and his eyelids grow heavier.

The only think  _ **she**_  ever asked him, and he couldn’t do it.

There are a lot of voices around him. The children’s  _ ~~highcuriousangry~~_ , the Tree’s  ~~ _deepcalmingworried_~~ , the Forest’s  ~~ _confusingslowfamiliar_~~ , and… And… And a sharp voice, a fresh voice.

A voice very close, yet so far away.

_You did great,_ the fresh, sharp voice says,  _Do not fear. **She** ’ll be here soon.  **She** ’ll take care of us._

Ok then, he’d reply, but the last drop of blood dropped out of his body has already put him to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One hundred years of waking in a pond and falling asleep again.

Of looking around, as the children hide from his sight.

Of wondering where  ** _she_**  is.

Of asking never getting answered.

Of watching the sword, the woman sleeping a deep, dark sleep with no dreams.

Of watching the woman, the sword healing.

Of cuts slowly closing.

Of long, distant dreams that taste too much like memories.

That’s how he spent the one hundred years prior the arrive of the boy.

He sees him, his hair messier than how he remembers, a blue tunic, round blue eyes, dirty pants. It just takes to notice those little things, and he feels life coming back to him.

He stretches his body with agonizing tardiness, trying to get out of the water and go hug his old friend, opening his mouth to call him, to shake him, to draw his attention to a face he never will remember.

But all that departs from his sharp teeth is a silent breath. His wounds haven’t healed yet, he can’t leave. His wooden body still doesn’t have enough blood to keep going on its own.

He can only look at the boy freeing the woman from her slumber, holding the sword up above his head.

He knows he will go away now. Sadly, that’s what his friends do best. He lays back in the water and closes his eyes, sighing, but has to open them again.

He’d swear he heard the graceful sound of little bells hit by wooden branches.

He didn’t expect the woman to face him, floating just above the pond he spends his days in trying to recover, staring at him down with a blank, blue face. Her cloak is moved softly by the wind, and each movement is a bell playing.

The woman bows.  _Thank you,_  she says, and her fresh voice is a blessing to his ears, _May one day we meet again._

He breathes something. It sounds too vague to be understood. Fi nods respectfully anyway, watching Skull Kid falling asleep again, lulled by the breeze and the sweet music she uncosciously plays.

Then, she follows her master out of the forest.


End file.
